Time Wears No Wrist Watch
by Cusswords
Summary: "There are no secrets that time does not reveal." Casey Novak—ADA, single mother, girlfriend extraordinaire—learns her lesson the hard way when a blast from the past and a tragedy force her to take desperate measures. Casey/Chester. C/E & C/O friendship.
1. Read Me

**Standard Disclaimer: **They're not mine. You don't sue, I don't cry. Oh, yeah…the quote in the summary: it came from Jean Racine, a French playwright. _Oh_ almost forget…the title was inspired by The Walkmen song _Revenge Wears No Wrist Watch. _Excellent song by an awe-inspiring band. Listen to them. Trust me, I know shit.

**Title: **Times Wears No Wrist Watch

**Author: **Cusswords

**Rating: **Teen

**Warnings: **Spoilers for season nine.

**Summary: **"There are no secrets that time does not reveal." Casey Novak—ADA, single mother, girlfriend extraordinaire—learns her lesson the hard way when a blast from the past and a tragedy force her to take desperate measures. Casey/Chester. C/E & C/O friendship.

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><p><strong>Read Me: <strong>Here is the re-write of Defining the Nest as promised!

**A few things before we begin:**

-This version takes place during late season nine (2007-2008). Casey and Chester's exits tie heavily into the plot.

-Robin gets a big brother this go round. His name's Rafe and Casey catapulted him into the world in '93—four years before his little sister.

-In canon, Casey met Charlie her during her second year of law school. In the mind of Margaux, she and Charlie met the second semester of her first year of undergrad. Everybody loves my fan wanks, huh? Say word? Word!

-**Warning**: I'm apologizing now for any other fan wanks I may pull during the writing of this story.

-**Numéro Deux d'alerte: **While I may have some free time now, my schedule can be overwhelmingly busy at times. My goal is to update once a week, more than that if time and my muse permit. Update gaps my happen, but I will try to keep this story from being abandoned.

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><p>Moving on? Moving on…<p> 


	2. Nobody Gets You but Me

**Chapter One: Nobody Gets You but Me**

"I was wondering when you'd show up."

Casey Novak let out a startled squeak, much to her ego's dismay, before her fingers relaxed their grip on the folders they'd been holding.

"Really? Really Elliot?" she groaned, stooping down to retrieve the folders that thankfully had not spit out any loose papers.

Detective Elliot Stabler was sprawled out, making himself perfectly at home in her chair, feet up on her cluttered desk, hands behind his head, as he sat there, contemplating the world.

Her world.

He was so annoying.

She narrowed her eyes at him before slamming her office door and tossing her beloved Burberry trench coat across one of the visitors' chairs in front of her desk. Groaning, she frowned at the mountainous stack of case files he was unceremoniously using as an ottoman before bending down to gather up medley of dossiers, trial records, and disposition notes fanned about the floor.

"I need that warrant, Casey."

She stood up and dusted her slacks, adding the freshly stacked folders to the overwhelming mound at his feet. "No, Elliot, what you _need _is information used to establish facts in a legal investigation or admissible as testimony in court—evidence: it's your friend. Oh, and get your narrow ass outta my chair."

An arrogant smirk tugged at his slips. "You've done more with less."

" 'Less' implies there was something there to begin with."

Groaning, he reached over and plucked one of the double 5x10 frames from their corner on her desk and held it up, "What if it were one your kids that was missing?"

Casey looked into the faces of her two children—Robin: all wayward dark curls and impish green eyes. Rafe: too confident and pretty for his own good— before snatching their recent school pictures and returning the frame back to its proper place. "Wow. When pathos doesn't work, you exploit my maternal instincts. If this overzealous detective gig fails, you'd make a great ambulance chaser."

He rolled his eyes and let out a deep, imploring sigh, "Work with me, Novak!"

"I'm doing the best I can, Elliot," she said, bringing her eyes to the clock on the wall beside him. She paled. "Shit!"

He frowned. "What?"

She seemed to have missed the question. Hurricane Casey touched down on ADA Novak's desk, shoving files into her briefcase and supplies back into their proper places. Mumbling several obscenities to herself, Casey moved around her desk and practically catapulted out the door.

Elliot had to run to catch up. "What just happened?"

"It's what's not happening," she didn't slow down. The two of them must've made an interesting sight, the ADA and the detective flying down the hallway like speed racer on—well, speed—in the direction of the elevators.

"Okay..." he arched his eyebrow again, stepping into the freshly opened elevator doors. "Care to share?"

"Robin," she started between breaths as she leaned into the lift's cool, brass wall. "She's on her school's Math League team. It's her first contest on the sixth grade squad and I promised I'd root for her. I should've been there by now."

"I could give you a ride. The school's on the—what?—West Side, right? I'll get you there in ten minutes, tops."

She smiled. "Thanks, but Chester's meeting me there. We're taking the kids out for celebratory Cajun. Rafe's a sucker for Shrimp Etouffee."

"Chester? Since when did you and Lake get serious?"

Her face froze defensively. "Since when are you interested?"

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "At ease, Counselor. Just making conversation."

"You don't know how to 'just make conversation'."

"Hey, I'm just worried about the squad...you know, dynamics and everything."

"Oh, come on. You all of people shouldn't be lecturing me about conflict of interest. Especially since you and Benson generate enough sexual tension to power the entire borough..."

He smirked. "We aren't talking about me."

"The holier-than-thou rarely offer up their own faults."

"Untighten your butt, Novak. I'm not judging you. I'm just concerned, that's all."

She gave him a once over. "Don't be. Chester's great. The kids like him...well, Robin does anyway. He's charming, he's funny, he puts the seat down..."

"Yeah...so I'm no longer interested..." he grimaced theatrically. "However, that warrant..."

She smirked at him and rolled her eyes. He was persistent, she'd give the arrogant son of a bitch that. "Fine. I'll do the best I can with what I got, but if I get laughed out of Petrovsky's chambers I'm turning your balls into pâté."

He chuckled. "Deal."

The ride ended and the doors opened, spitting them into the harsh arms of Manhattan's winter chill. They both stepped out and lingered in the lobby, an awkward silence seizing their tongues.

Casey was the first to speak. "I really am going to get that warrant."

He nodded, kicking at invisible dust as he stuffed his hands in the pockets of his slacks. "I know. Hey Casey?"

"Yeah?"

"Be careful."

"Always."

She offered him a final smile before leaving the courthouse.

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><p>"Would you stop pacing? You're giving me a headache," eleven-year-old Jason Clohessy shouted when he could tolerate his best friend's incessant marching no more. He crammed his hands in his pockets of his khakis as Robin Novak-Burnham stopped in her tracks and glared at him.<p>

"I can't help it," the ten year old groaned out as she crossed the room to join him. "It helps me focus."

"That's the problem," he lowered himself down onto the hardwood floor, taking her sticky palm and pulling her down with him. "You concentrate on the wrong stuff and you end up freaking yourself out. Don't worry, your mom'll show up."

"So she says," she murmured.

"Well at least the rest of your family's here."

She stood up and gingerly parted the curtains, poking her head out to survey the audience. There, in the front row were her father's parents—Rafferty and Hillary Burnham—her stereotypically proud waspy grandparents. She scanned the rest of Midgley Day School's auditorium, combing the sea of faces for her mother's. All she could find was her fourteen year-old brother nestled way in the back by the entrance, his uniform blazer unbuttoned and his white shirt rebelliously untucked, his obnoxiously pretty face leaning dangerously close to a blonde junior from the upper school.

"How does he do it?" Jason crooned.

"Not all girls fall for the rebel without a clue act, you know."

"Hey, I don't need _all _the girls. Two will tide me over 'til puberty."

"You can be such a boy sometimes."

"It must suck having a brother that's prettier than you."

She socked him in the arm and pushed him away from the curtain. "I manage."

"Man you're deadly when you're anxious," he rubbed the sore epicenter of the impact and poked out his bottom lip. "Besides, didn't you say your mom was brining her new boyfriend? That sounds pretty solid to me."

"Yeah, but he's a cop in her unit. What if they both got called in?"

"I'm gonna need you to stop worrying, okay? Everything's fine. You know these equations like that back of your hand. So what if your Mom doesn't show? Yeah it'll suck, but you're not alone. You have me."

She smiled weakly. "Thanks Jase."

"You'd both feel better if you just kissed and got it over with!"

The two friends whirled around to find Brandon Clohessy, Jason's cousin and school's resident asshole, grinning rascally at them from the doorframe. He eased further into the room, his customary self-satisfying smirk lifting the left corner of his lips.

"Screw you, Clohessy," Robin rolled her eyes and groaned, wiggling out of Jason's arms.

"You wish," Brandon inched closer into her personal space.

"You're so gross," she wrinkled her nose and shoved him away.

"What do you want, anyway?"

The twelve year old flashed his exasperated cousin a toothy grin. "Me?" he shrugged. "I'm just the messenger. Mrs. McDermott's gathering the nerd herd in the hallway for some dweeb-tastic words of encouragement. You should hurry, you need all the help you can get. I'll even walk you."

"Thanks but no thanks, Clohessy," she jostled him aside and headed for the door. Stopping short of opening it, she offered the Clohessy cousins a final saucy smirk. "Thanks for the pep talk, Jace."

With a hard glare at Robin's receding frame, Brandon balled up his chest and hawked up a loogie.

Jason glowered at the attractive medley of mucus and spittle before smacking his repulsive relative upside the head. "Idiot."

"I hate her."

"Yeah," Jason smirked at him incredulously. "That's it."

"Get stuffed," he shoved him and trudged away in search of another target.

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><p>Gliding on a gust of wind, her Louboutins gnawing at her feet, Casey blew through the hallways of Midgley Day, frantically trying to find the auditorium and a way not to add to mass of disappointment plaguing her relationship with her kids. She flew down the stairs—fifteen thousand dollars a year worth of tuition and the elevators were out of order? Really?—and managed to make it half way down the wall when...<p>

Smack.

Right there, barely ten yards away from her destination, renowned Assistant District Attorney was sprawled out on the shiny linoleum, the contents of her briefcase and dignity spewed out in front of her.

"Casey? Casey, are you okay?"

She clamped her eyes shut and pressed her nose against the cold floor, the embarrassment reddening her cheeks and rendering her vocal cords useless.

"Laugh and you die," she said more to the floor than to Chester Lake.

An instinctive chuckle slipped out, though he stifled it when she lashed him with a green death ray. He held up his hands in mock surrender and flashed his pearly whites. Without further ado, he bent down and chivalrously hauled her to her feet, careful not to be too gallant for fear of further pissing her off.

Then, to make matters worse, the water works started. A gushing faucet, hot droplets of unforgivably cringeworthy emotion sliding down her face like searing oil.

"Hey, hey, talk to me," he grabbed her shoulders, trying to follow her wandering eyes. "What's wrong?"

"What's not?" she scoffed.

He tilted his head.

"I'm a bad mother."

To her chagrin he laughed.

He actually laughed at her.

Asshole!

"Really Chester?" she angrily swiped at her eyes and shrugged away his touch.

"Hey, no—no, no, come on, hey don't walk way," he pulled her back. Gingerly, he thumbed away her tears and swept a stubborn red strand away from her face. "I just...it's not funny...it's...it's ridiculous...come on Casey, where'd you get that idea?"

"Oh...gee...where do I begin? My kids are practically raising themselves. When they're not getting home on their own, doing homework on their own, cooking on their own—their grandparents are doing all the work. Charlie's parents go to all the baseball games, the science fairs, the pancake breakfasts, their grandmother's even on the steering committee. And you know what? On the off chance I get a break from saving other people's children...when I can actually come see one of my kids do something they love, I show up late."

"Casey, come on..."

"No, the best part," she laughed bitterly. "The best part is I chalk it up to being a single mother and what do you know? That's my fault too. I drove Charlie away. I pushed him too hard. I should've let him seek treatment at his own pace. I shouldn't have used our kids as a bargaining chip to bully him into therapy. Then when that didn't work, I kicked him to the curb."

"You did what you had to do for Rafe and Robin. You did what you had to do for your own sanity. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Tell that to Charlie's parents. Face it Chester, I suck as a mother. I suck at relationships. You're either a glutton for punishment or out of options. Either way, I really wouldn't blame you if you ran out the door."

"If anyone's a glutton for punishment, it's you. What's up with this obsession with guilt?"

"I wouldn't call it an obsession..."

"Okay, but you're only human. You're an amazing mother. You couldn't have predicted what happened with Charlie. You love those kids and you do the best you can with what you've got. You did the best with Charlie. That's all anyone could ever ask of you."

"You could give Huang a run for his money."

Rolling his eyes, he bent down and quickly whisked her stray files back into the safety of her briefcase. Leaning in, he gave her a quick peck on the check and led her by the hand toward the auditorium without a word about her lovely little nosedive.

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><p><strong>Quick note: <strong>This chapter's title is borrowed from the Spoon song of the same name.

Also, regarding **reviews**: It's not my style to hold my story hostage if I don't get "x number of reviews", but I will say that I appreciate feedback of all forms. Complements or critique, I'd love to hear from you.

Thanks for reading.

**Next up: **Rafe gets lines. :)


	3. The Battle Lines are Clear

Thanks for the feedback, you guys! I really appreciate it!

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><p>Chapter Two: The Battle Lines are Clear<p>

Luckily the Math League didn't inspire much fanfare, for Casey and Chester were able to find seats reasonability close to the stage. Settling into the plush chair, Casey gave a cursory search for her kids. Surprisingly, Rafe had abandoned his blonde friend and found a place next to his grandparents. Poor little Robin was sitting at the end of the stage, sweating bullets, fiddling with the buttons on her school blazer as she anxiously waited her turn.

"She's so nervous," she nudged Chester and pointed at her jittery sixth grader. "I should've gotten here earlier. She probably doesn't know I'm here. Let's try to get a seat closer..."

"Will you relax?" he put his hand on her knee. "Just give her a chance to chill out. This gives her a chance to face her fear independently and when she see's your face it'll just be the icing on the cake."

Casey scrunched up her nose. "When'd you become Mr. Mom?"

A huge grin erupted on his face as he slung an arm over her shoulder. "I'm just that good."

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><p>"Robin Burnham, please come up to podium."<p>

Robin jumped at the sound of her name. She pulled herself up tentatively, her skinny legs turning to jelly under the weight of her fear. Squinting at the audience, she could see her grandparents enthusiastically waving her to the center of the stage. Jason was clapping like a mad man. Brandon gave her a sarcastic salute. Rafe was even flashing his dimples encouragingly. Stumbling up to the microphone, she pulled it down to her height only to have it emit a shrill squeak.

Great.

"Ready Robin?" at least the judge was nice enough not to cringe at her faux pas.

Nodding meekly, she cleared her throat.

It was good her mother wasn't there. If she bombed, at least she didn't have to worry about failing in front of her.

"Okay, you have forty seconds to solve the following problem. You may use the scratch paper provided for you on the podium. When the buzzer sounds, drop your pencil and read your solution into the microphone. Understand?"

Another timid nod.

"All right, for ten points, if four x minus the reciprocal of one over x to the third power, then x could equal: one eighth, one half, two, or eight. Begin."

Really? Reciprocals?

And in forty seconds!

How could she...?

Crap, she'd wasted five seconds worrying.

Okay, she picked up the pencil, since the reciprocal of one over x to the third power is x to the third power. So then, four x equals...

Great, she closed her eyes as her heart pounded in her chest, her brain was rapidly reducing itself to a mushy lump of fail.

Looking up, she decided she couldn't do it.

Just as she was about to concede, she caught sight of a pale thumb floating above the sea of faces. She narrowed her eyes and with a gasp, she realized there, in the flesh, was her mother. Chester was there too, grinning at her in a paternally proud sort of way.

Which was weird, considering he wasn't her father.

Then again, the one she had wasn't exactly Danny Tanner.

Charlie Burnham had no sitcom equivalent. Then again, few wholesome situation comedies featured homeless schizophrenics as dear old dad.

Chester hadn't been dating her mother very long and yet he managed to be there. That counted for something. It counted a lot.

Shaking her head, she waved back at Casey and Chester, and she felt a surprising surge of confidence lift up her pencil and beat the buzzer.

"Since the reciprocal of one over x to the third power is x to the third power that means four x equals x cubed so the value x equals two is the best possible solution."

"That's correct, Robin. You may rejoin your teammates."

The rest of the competition went on without a hitch and although Midgley lost, Robin managed to conquer her fear.

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><p>"That was some brainwork, Egghead," Rafferty Novak-Burnham slung his arm over his little sister's neck, engulfing her in an affectionate headlock. "For once I'm not ashamed to admit I share chromosomes with you. Good job."<p>

"Thanks, asshole," she tried to wriggle out of his grip as she scanned the auditorium for their mother. "Where'd Mom and Chester go?"

Rafe groaned. "Why'd she bring him, anyway?"

"He's her boyfriend. Get over it."

He frowned and noogied her head. "You're such a traitor. I can't believe you actually like the guy."

Robin licked his arm and he released his grip, though he used her cheek as a washcloth. She shoved him away. "What's not to like?"

"Uh…he's not Dad?"

"Maybe that isn't a bad—ouch!" Robin rubbed the central point of the pain in her arm. "Hit me again and Mom'll be using your insurance money to pay the remainder of my tuition."

"You're unbelievable sometimes…"

"As I was _saying_," she gave his shoulder a shove. "Maybe...maybe that fact that Chester and Dad are polar opposites is a good thing. Chester's simple and safe—and sane."

"Robin," he said as gently as possible. "You can't blame Dad for having schizophrenia."

"Yeah?" she folded her arms and glared at him indignantly. "And _you_ can't blame Mom for choosing us over him."

"No, she chose herself," he snapped coldly. He bit his lip, stifling his temper. "You don't understand. You were only five. You were too young to understand everything."

"I understood enough to be scared of him. I knew to hide from him when he was having a 'bad time'," she pushed back, putting air quotes around "bad time". "I remember what Mom's face looked like when he was finished."

Rafe looked away. "He was sick. He wasn't always like that."

"I know…I know you hate that Mom's with somebody else. I didn't like it at first, either. Sometimes I wish Dad would come back and I could get to know him. But Chester…he makes her happy and Mom really deserves somebody that she doesn't have to fix."

She looked so serious, so innocently earnest that Rafe didn't want burst her bubble. He had to. It was his duty to protect her. Their father told him so the first time he'd slipped the slithering, puffy red lump of "sister" into Rafe's four-year-old arms.

"Robin…Chester…he's temporary, okay? He's filling a void. He may be who's on her mind right now, but Dad will always be—as mushy as it is—the only guy in her heart. So, okay, he makes Mom happy right now, but when Dad comes back…"

She couldn't take it anymore. Sometimes her brother could be the biggest idiot savant—ninety percent idiot, ten percent savant. "_Hello_, sorry but the fairytale's over. Open your eyes and grow up! Dad's never coming back! He chose his illness over us and I'm glad he's gone!"

"Glad who's gone, Champ?"

Rafe and Robin had the decency to look sheepish when their mother and her beau miraculously appeared. Robin, ever the amicable of the two, lunged herself at an ill prepared Casey, almost tackling her to the ground. "Nobody. I'm glad you were able to make it, Mom! I thought you weren't gonna show."

"I've already fallen on my ass once today. Let's not make it two for two," Casey laughed, ruffling the girl's shambolic nest of curls.

"You fell?"

"Picture your mother running like Seabiscuit at top speed in trendy pumps and then taking a headlong dive to the floor."

Robin and Chester exchanged mischievous grins. Serious!Rafe was not amused.

"It's not funny," Casey theatrically pouted. "I could've sprained something."

"Just your ego," Chester laughed.

"You," she pointed at her youngest. "_You _laugh and you're grounded."

Robin shrugged and tossed her mother a puckish smirk. "Ground away. Just remember I'll be picking your nursing home. "

"_Anyway_, I'm proud of you Robin. You were scared stiff, but you managed to defrost your brain and get the job done—on your own. Nice job, Champ."

"I saw you in the audience. Not to beat it to death or anything, but I'm really glad you showed up. It felt really good to see you there."

"Hey," Casey squeezed the sixth grader's shoulder and kissed the side of her head. "I said I'd be here, didn't I?"

"That's never stopped you before," Rafe not so subtlety mumbled.

"Hey Rafe," Chester stepped forward and flashed Casey's only son a disarming smile. He held out his right hand. "Nice to see you again."

Casey exchanged looks with Chester when Rafe stared at the man's outstretched hand and remained silent. She combed his face, hoping to find a clue of which Rafe he was going to be. He'd become unpredictable after his father left. Her son kept her and the rest of his world at arms length, keeping himself visible but unavailable. Except for girls and his grandparents. He always had time for them.

As usual, Rafe's emotions remained guarded and a complete mystery to her. Rafe had become an enigma as far as his mother was concerned, had been since the day he realized deep down that Charlie was never coming back. Casey feared the unanswerable. Her oldest son was becoming an impossible riddle to solve—like his father.

When Rafe finally looked up, a charming glint lit his blue eyes. He smiled, flaunting his dimples. He shook Chester's hand, albeit lightly. "Thanks for showing up. You didn't have to."

"I'm right where I need to be."

Rafe narrowed his eyes, though he kept his smile firmly in place. Chester regarded the boy with a cop's scrupulous attention to detail and found himself utterly unimpressed by the dimpled smile Rafe tried to mollify him with. They were adorable, his dimples, he'd give the kid that. It was the way he knew they were adorable, they way he capitalized on them, that let Chester Lake know Rafe was going to be as much trouble as possible.

"Robin! We were wondering where you snuck off to!"

The group looked up to find a smiling Hillary Burnham sauntering toward them, her husband—the elder Rafferty Burnham—in tow. Clad in a navy blue St. John pant suit and enough pearls to guarantee oysters a spot on the endangered species list, Mrs. Burnham's whole ensemble oozed the old money poise and traditional elegance befitting of her station.

"Thanks for coming, Grandma," Robin leaned forward to accept her grandmother's kiss against her cheek. "You too, Grandpa. I know guys have a charity gala after this. It was nice of you to squeeze me into your schedule."

"It's what family does, dear," Mrs. Burnham shot Casey a censorious glance. "You did a marvelous job. Your grandfather and I couldn't have been prouder."

"Yes," Rafferty tweaked his granddaughter's button nose. "You may not look like Charlie, but you definitely inherited his gray matter. Your father was one the smartest men I ever knew."

"And you," Hillary beamed at her grandson. She reached in, condescendingly adjusting his tie and straightening his blazer. Rafe ducked before she could attempt to smooth his spiky hair. "_You _are the spitting image of your father at your age, complete with his contumaciously unkempt appearance."

Rafe gave his grandmother a waggish grin. "The ladies don't seem to mind. Besides," he winked at his grandfather. "I'm not the first Rafferty Burnham to break beautiful hearts at Midgley Day."

"Say," the elder Rafferty smiled between his grandchildren. He checked his watch. "The gala doesn't for another two hours. That's enough time for a quick meal. What do you say, Birdie? How about a little fête in your honor?"

"Sounds nice, Grandpa, but Mom and Chester…"

"Yes, Chester," Mrs. Burnham sized the man up, resentfully acknowledging his presence. "What is that you do_..._Mr.?"

"Lake. Detective Lake," he flashed his pearly whites and extended his palm. "I work with Casey."

She frowned at Chester's hand, her lips curved in barely subdued disgust. "How…inclusive."

Rafferty cleared his throat reproachfully. He accepted Chester's handshake. "Pleasure to meet you. It's always a delight to be in the company of New York's finest."

Mrs. Burnham fired her contempt at Casey. "I don't think my son would appreciate you subjecting his children to your…colleagues."

Casey stood to her full height, dodging the bullet. She _really_ wasn't in the mood. "Well he isn't here, is he?"

Hillary Burnham wasn't known to give inches. "And who's fault his that?"

Suddenly Casey Novak was twenty years old again, sitting in the apartment she shared with Charlie during their second year of undergrad, trying not to squirm as the Burnhams inspected her like soldiers on a reconnaissance mission. She remembered Hillary Burnham's apparent revulsion at the sight of her swollen belly and the subsequent private tête-à-têtes between Charlie and his parents that she was not invited to. Rafferty Burnham politely offered to help them find a proper home for the baby, diplomatically citing their age as the reason why they shouldn't parent their child. Months later, when Rafe was born, the elder Rafferty buried the hatchet. His wife, however, never forgave the "salacious country bumpkin" who ruined her youngest boy's future.

"Hey, lay off my mom," Robin's hard tone shook her mother out of reverie. Casey squeezed her daughter's shoulder to no avail. "Dad's not here because he didn't wanna be."

Hillary shook her head mournfully at Robin heroics. "You're already turning them against him. Come on, Rafferty. We've a gala to attend."

Rafferty offered Casey an apologetic smile before trailing after his wife.

"Wait!" Rafe called after his fleeing grandparents. "I'll go to dinner with you guys."

"No Rafe," Robin tugged at her brother's hand. "You promised you'd come to dinner with us."

He shook away her touch and glared at their mother. "I have a father. Unlike some people, I didn't forget him." With that, he jogged off toward the open arms of Hillary Burnham.

"Mom! You're just gonna let him get away with that?"

Casey grimaced, remembering what happened the last time she'd forced a Burnham to stay where he didn't want to be.

* * *

><p><strong>Next time: <strong>When Olivia pays the Novak home a visit, Casey opens up to the detective about her personal life. Later, Robin and Casey talk about Charlie.


	4. Somewhere in Between

'Long time, no update. Sorry 'bout that. Here's a long chapter as a peace offering. :)

Oh, someone asked me asked me if I plan on re-doing Flight Plan. Thanks for asking. The answer: Yes and no. I plan on incorporating some elements of FP, but I don't intend on taking the same route. Confused? Sorry, I fail at giving precise answers. Things will become clearer as this story progresses. :)

For fans of "Favorite Worst Nightmare", I'm working on an update and it should be out soon.

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><p><strong>Chapter Three: Somewhere in Between<strong>

"Let's get outta here."

"What?"

"Let's get outta here, out of New York. A buddy of mine has a vacation house up in Lake Placid, right at the foot of the Adirondack Mountains. The kids could hit Whiteface, get some serious skiing time in, and maybe take some snowboarding lessons. They even have a spa at the lodge—complete with maple butter massages, Swedish massages, salt baths, facials, manicures…"

Casey was practically salivating. "Swedish massages…"

Chester nodded, running the pads of his fingers up her bare leg enticingly. "…five star dining to satisfy your inner culinary elitist…shopping…"

"That all sounds great…"

His fingers went limp. "…but?"

She sighed at his blatant disappointment. "We don't exactly have an abundance of vacation time…"

"Oh come on. Taking a well disserved break isn't misfeasance, Casey."

She scoffed. "Tell that to Jack McCoy," she looked up at him. "And what about you? You have a mountain of active cases. Fin would knock the both of us off if you dumped them in his lap with a temporary partner to match."

"My Spidey Senses are telling me that this has absolutely nothing to do with avoiding Finn's dormant homicidal tendencies," he took a sip of beer and leveled her with his eyes. "This is moving too fast for you, isn't it?"

Casey decided to take advantage of a childless Saturday and invite Chester over for dinner. His phobia of dependence upstaged the evening, for he insisted upon cooking _and _setting the table, all while refusing every morsel of help she offered.

Unfortunately he burned the roast.

After a satisfying meal of pizza and suds, they retreated to the couch, each nursing a beer. They were supposed to be watching the Knicks game, but Chester's penchant for integrating profound conversation into traditionally lighthearted moments had taken the evening hostage.

"I just don't think it's a good idea," she answered after some time. "I mean, it is but it isn't." Her brow creased and her lip jutted out. Sighing, she ran her fingers through her hair and rested her chin in her palm. "I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"No," he chuckled softly and tucked a stray blonde strand behind her ear. "But I won't hold it against you."

"If it were just me…" she still felt the need to explain despite the 'It's fine. I'm fine. Shut up' smile he was attempting to placate her with. "If it were just me: I'd go balls out…but the kids—Rafe in particular…"

"…hate me."

"I wouldn't go that far."

He frowned. Now look who was the placater. "Uh…the kid looks at me like he wants to chop me up into tiny pieces and throw my perfectly minced carcass into the East River."

She tossed a pillow at him. "Wow Lake, when persuasion and inveiglement fail, just imply that I raised a serial killer—that's a stellar way to convince me to go on vacation with you. Besides, Rafe doesn't 'hate' you…"

Chester tossed the pillow back at her. "Uh, naiveté…not aesthetically pleasing on a thirty something district attorney."

"Really, I thought all guys were hot for the unworldly, demure shtick."

He arched his brow. "Demure?"

She opted for _smacking_ the smug bastard this go round.

He grinned. "Sucks when changing the subject doesn't go your way, huh? Okay seriously, 'hate' may have been overdramatic…but he's just not feeling the 'cop and the lawyer' routine."

"It's not you. I could bring home George Clooney and he would still bitch."

"So I'm no George Clooney?"

She pitched a grandiose sigh and continued. "Rafe didn't get the luxury of a clean break. His life went from one extreme to another. One day our house was chaotic and loud and messy and the next…the next there cold hard silence and an empty ass pothole where his father should've been. In his mind, you're trying fill the void and he's gonna do everything in his power to keep it open until Charlie can come back and fill it himself."

"And where does that leave you?" he asked softly.

After a long pull of beer, she looked over and held his eyes. "In limbo."

He didn't want to insult her with truisms or useless clichés. Instead, he sat his beer on the coffee table and pulled her to him, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She eased her head into his lap, her bottle blonde hair blanketing his jeans. They remained in silence, watching as they Knicks struggled to get a point on the board.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Robin skipped into her grandparents' kitchen in search of the Burnham's maid, only to be greeted by the vision of Rafe hunched over his biology book at the kitchen table—his head burrowed in the crook of his elbow, a pencil dangling from his relaxed fingers. A bout of euphoria seized the sixth grader as she delved into the pocket of her jeans, rummaging for her cell phone. She gleefully snapped the damning image, careful to zoom in on the puddle of spit pooling under brother's gapping lips.<p>

Unfortunately the flash roused him from his biology-induced slumber.

"Did you just take a picture of me?" he asked, groggily pawing at his eyes.

"Uh…no?"

"Liar."

"Fine, I did," she shrewdly backed out of his arm's reach and smugly turned her phone's screen around for him to see. "Feast your eyes on this. I call it: _le coupon__de chantage._ That's French for 'you're screwed'.

"A blackmail coupon? Come on, Robin. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't even have that phone."

"Okay, sure, you got your basketball teammates to pay me for tutoring, but you took half my profit!"

He shrugged. "What's the point of having an egghead for a sister if she can't be a fiscal asset?"

"For the record, it's the dweebs and the 'eggheads' who ultimately grow up to run industrialized nations like our own," with a sanctimonious smirk, she flounced over to the refrigerator for some Go-Gurt. "Just ask Bill Gates."

"Sometimes I cannot believe we shot out of the same womb."

"_I_ can't believe we swam out of the same gene pool," she looked over at his open book. 'Genetic anomalies' screamed out from the page in bold letters. "Talk about 'genetic anomalies'. I mean, I'm a genius and you're a lummox."

"What the hell is a lummox?"

"A clumsy, stupid person. Possession of a vocabulary: now legal in New York."

"I'm not clumsy. And hey," he balled up a paper napkin and threw it at her. "I'm the oldest. You can't talk about me like that."

Robin rolled her eyes and plopped the portable yogurt her mouth. "One's chronological age has absolutely nothing to do with maturity level," she flapped an explanatory free hand in his direction. "Exhibit A."

"I hate you."

She stuck out her tongue.

"Hey," he pushed his book side and stretched in his chair. "Have you noticed Chester hasn't been to any more extracurricular events? Think he got the message?"

"What, the one that announced that you're a childish brat that can't handle his mom moving on?"

"No," he lashed her with a Casey-esque death glare. "That he's detective non grata around these parts and that he isn't good enough for our mother."

"Really? Because Grandma and Grandpa felt the exact same way about Mom when Dad did the world a disservice and impregnated her with you."

"You know," he tilted his head contemplatively. "If I kill you, Mom's awesome enough to get me off…"

"Who are you kidding? You're too pretty for prison. Seriously Rafe, when are you gonna get over it? He's her boyfriend. They're happy. Suck it up and get outta her way."

"Yeah? Well, you know what? One of these days Dad's gonna come back and when he does, I'm gonna make sure he's got a family to come home to."

"Oh my god!" she shouted, suddenly furious. She threw her half empty Go-Gurt tube on the floor and stamped her feet. "When are you gonna grow up? Read my lips: Dad is nev-er com-ing back! If he really wanted to be a family, he would've gotten the help he needed—like _Mom_ wanted."

"If Mom _really_ loved Dad, she would've stuck by him!"

"If Dad _really_ loved Mom, he would've sought treatment instead of using her face as a punching bag...!"

"Robin! That's enough!"

Both siblings turned around to find their indignantly disgruntled grandmother scowling at them from the kitchen's entryway. Rafe had the decency to look sheepish. Robin simply folded her arms and returned Hillary Burnham's chagrined glower.

"I'll not have you slandering your father in this house, young lady."

" 'Slander' implies falsity," the child mumbled.

"Touché, Niece."

All three whirled in the direction of the whimsical voice and were met by the eldest Burnham son's roguish smirk. Stealing further into the room, Conrad Burnham ruffled Rafe's hair—deliberately demolishing the teen's perfect faux hawk, much to his nephew's chagrin—before joining Robin in the eye of Hurricane Hillary. He placed two supportive hands on the girl's shoulders and stared his mother down, grinning at her glaring annoyance.

"Long time no see, Niece. What are you now, eight?"

"I'm ten," she playfully glared up at him. "But I'll be eleven in January so you still have time to shop."

He tousled her curls. "I'll keep that in mind," he glanced at Rafe. "What about you, Nephew? Still a Lothario?"

"Still a criminal?" Rafe deadpanned.

"Touché Grandson," Hillary smirked. "And _you_," she scornfully pointed at Connie. "How did you get in here?"

"Hiya Mom! I'm fine, thank you," he sarcastically pulled back his lips and exposed a full spread of perfect teeth. The black sheep of the family flounced over to the table and sat down, picking an apple out of the fruit basket in the center and stealing a messy bite. The juice ran down his chin as he spoke, apple chunks obscuring his words. "Uh, to answer your question, Gracie let me in."

She scowled at his indecorous manners. "I don't know why I haven't fired her," she looked pointedly at the unseemly mistake. "She's brought nothing but trouble into this house."

Trouble winked at her. "Gracie's always had some sway with Dad."

She glared at him menacingly. "Why are you here?"

"Can't a guy drop in on his family?"

"No, you may not. Especially after you ungratefully squandered every opportunity your father and I afforded you," she ticked them off on her perfectly manicured fingers. "Exclusive secondary education, Harvard undergrad, Harvard law…do you honestly think you would've attained any of that without our influence? And what do you do? You use your legal prowess to help Eastern European mobsters skirt the law."

"What can I say? I'm good at it. Besides, it looks like I showed up just in time for another round of Canonize Charlie. Did I miss the bonus round? 'Selective Amnesia: Most Stylish Way to Whitewash Charlie's Illness?'"

"Actually, Uncle Connie, we were only in the 'Blame Casey' category."

"Sweet! Misplaced blame," he nudged Robin and tugged one of her curls. "Mom's especially good at that."

"Oh, the inculpatory evidence points directly to that gauche 'woman's' culpability. She had a duty to my son and when his situation became too arduous and he began to interfere with her insouciant lifestyle, she threw him away."

"That's a lie! He left us!"

"See! Do you see that?" she waved an evidential hand at Robin's affronted grimace. "She's even turned his own child against him! It's disgusting!"

"Oh yeah? Where were you Grandma? How come you never offered to help Mom with Dad?"

Rafe sensed the impending disaster. "Robin…"

"No, Rafe," Robin willfully ignored the flashing warning claxons were her brother's eyes should've been. "Grandma's always ragging on Mom about what she didn't do—but what did you do Grandma? Mom and Grandpa were the ones who got him into the institution the first time. Mom got him to the shrink to get diagnosed in the first place. _You_ never lifted a finger to help my dad. _You _were more concerned about what the ladies in your charity guild thought about your schizo son than you were with helping him…"

The slap wasn't painful, but it was effective. The ten-year-old was successfully silenced, but it only sent Robin into higher dungeon. To her credit Hillary's mouth hung open, her blue eyes wavering between apologetic and righteous.

"I'm sorry…" she reached for Robin's smarting cheek, but the girl was already backing towards the door.

Robin stared up at her grandmother, opened her mouth to say something, but she closed it and shrugged hollowly. Her face went still as granite, her green eyes darkened to an aggrieved black as she turned on her heel, nodded her curt goodbyes and started out of the room.

She stopped a few feet away from the threshold and turned around, "You know, some scientists argue that children who grow up with critical, abusive parents are more likely to develop schizophrenia," she looked her grandmother up and down. "Maybe nurture does trump nature."

* * *

><p>The sound of knocking was tenacious. It wouldn't give up, try as Casey might to ignore it, but it was adamant about destroying her only refuge from the megaflop that was her relationship with Chester—sleep. She unfastened her eyes a slit. The room was dull with smoggy city light. She yawned only to inhale the oily air that seemed to be exclusive to Manhattan's Upper West Side. Casey pulled her duvet over her head. The wretched knocking continued.<p>

Groaning, she petulantly threw on her robe and headed toward the door in an agitated fog. She crossed her living room, the soft carpet licking her bare feet. She surveyed the room—frowning at the fact that it looked like a bombed out crack den—and yanked open the front door, careful to leave the safety chain in tact.

Casey glowered at the manila mound in the female intrusion's hands. "…and she comes bearing work? Next time, tequila will suffice."

Olivia Benson smirked. "Hey, you were the one who suggested we go over my testimony in the comforts of your orange matchbox."

She stepped aside and waved her friend though the door. "Must've been high at the time."

The detective's mouth stretched into a wide, knowing grin as she stepped across the transom. "Kid trouble?"

"A failtastic medley of teenage melodrama and relationship woes if we're being completely accurate," Casey rolled her eyes as she modeled her faux manners by taking the detective's coat. "Wanna beer?"

Olivia made herself at home on the couch. "Uh…a little early, isn't it?"

"Eh, it's after five somewhere," she shrugged and started for the kitchen. "Heineken or Fat Tire?"

The cop shook her head and chuckled. "Water will do. Besides, don't you think we should be sober for this?"

"Debbie Downer."

They were half way through Olivia's standard "decorated detective"—though brilliantly damning—testimony when the brunette realized she couldn't take it anymore.

"You're gonna make me beg, huh?"

Casey pretended to ponder the image. "It would be kinda hot."

Olivia rolled her eyes. "You've been sighing and panting like a virgin on prom night. Fine, hint taken. What happened between you and Chester?"

"He invited the kids and I upstate to go skiing."

"Wow, sounds indecent."

Olivia's sarcasm wasn't lost on the blonde. "Come on, you know how my son is about me…"

"…having a life outside the memory of his father?"

"I was gonna say 'dating'," she flashed a sarcastic thumb up. "Good job on the profound analysis portion of the exam."

"So you and Lake are serious, then?"

"As serious as two people can be in the confines of my 'orange matchbox'."

"Elliot mentioned something about Lake accompanying you to Robin's school…"

"…geez, does he braid your hair and paint your nails while you swap secrets…"

"…how'd that go?"

"It turned into a pissing contest between me and my almost monster-in-law. Rafe, of course, sided with the Burnhams. That woman…she _totally_ plays on my kid's need to atone for my mistakes and Rafe's constantly tripping over himself to apologize for my failing Charlie."

"You didn't fail him, Casey."

Casey rolled her eyes at Olivia's 'victim voice'. "Regardless of whether or not I failed him—and I _did_ fail him—it's not Rafe's job to present himself as a shiny new replacement. "

"And Rafe sees Chester as a complication."

"It's not exclusive to Chester. At this point any man who dares to breathe in my vicinity is a fly in the ointment as far as Rafe's concerned. I'm just…" she let on a dramatic groan and buried her face in her hands. "I wish I could just...gah! I don't know what I want, but what I _do_ know is none of this is fair to Chester. He didn't sign up for this After School special I call a life and he shouldn't have to wait for me…"

"So you're quitting…"

Casey glared at the other women. "No, I'm being magnanimous."

"Sorry, but your brand of altruism looks a lot like quitting."

"Who asked you?"

"You know Mom, Detective Benson does present a cogent argument."

Neither of them heard the front door, nor were they aware they were being watched until they whirled and saw a certain sixth grader grinning mischievously at them from the corner of the room. Peeling off her red pea coat and matching beret, Robin shook out her curls and bounced over to the sofa, boldly inserting herself between the two adults.

"So," she plunked her ballet flats on the coffee table. "What am I missing?"

"Your feet if you don't get them off my coffee table," Casey pushed the aforementioned tootsies off her beloved furniture. "How'd you get here and where's your brother?"

"Uncle Connie drove me and the cretin commonly referred to as Rafe is currently in the company of our equally obtuse paternal grandmother."

"Connie Burnham…" Olivia ran the name through the Rolodex in her mind. She tilted her head, grimacing as the memory finally dawned on her. "_Conrad_ Burnham, the _mob_ lawyer…_he's_ Charlie's brother?" she reached over and slapped Casey's knee. "You failed to mention that."

"It's a moot point. I've seen him a handful of times. We've never faced each other in court. Charlie rarely allowed him around our kids," she ticked the reason's off on her fingers. "Connie's generally a sore subject for the Burnhams and up until today, he was mob lawyer non grata at the Burnham asylum," she looked at her daughter. "What's up with that?"

Robin shrugged. "I dunno, he probably came to annoy my ignorantly obstinate grandmother."

"Okay, that's the second string of derogatory adjectives you've used to describe Hillary and Rafe. Wanna tell me what happened?"

She looked down at her shoes. "It was stupid."

"And that's my cue to go," Olivia stood and gathered her belongs. "It was great to see you again, Robin. And _you_," she pointed at her Casey. "No hasty quitting."

"So, what happened?" Casey repeated once Olivia let herself out.

"The usual. Grandma blamed you for the giant fail that is Dad's life and Rafe enabled her. Oh, and you should really lay off Uncle Connie because he stuck up for you."

"No, he antagonizes your grandmother: there's a difference."

"Anyway, it's so stupid. I'm the ten year old. It would be cute if I thought the frog would turn into a prince and you and him would get your happily ever after, but it looks retarded on a high school freshman."

Casey sighed and patted her chest, an invitation Robin wasted no time accepting. She rested her head on the girl's rumpled cluster of curls as she mulled over how to explain the complexities of schizophrenia and the intricacies of the male teenage mind to a precocious, overly left-brained ten-year-old.

Oh, the joys of single parenthood.

"Robin, do you know what pragmatic means?"

"Yeah, it means dealing with things sensibly and realistically in a way that is based on practical rather than theoretical consideration. So, are you saying I'm sensible and Rafe lives in a delusional seclusion from the facts and practicality of the real world?"

Casey frowned at faux naiveté in the brilliant little brat's voice. "If that was your circuitous way pointing out your brother lives in an ivory tower, major fail in the subtle department, Daughter. See this face," she swept a hand over her humorless countenance. "Not amused."

No, Dissappoving!Mom was definitely not amused. Robin knew some backpedaling was in order. "Okay, so Rafe's right brained and I lean towards the left. What does that have to do with him punishing you for stopping Dad from holding us hostage?"

Damnit.

This was the part where Casey Novak was supposed morph into the prudent and sagacious mother of the year. She was supposed to be a fountainhead of advice, spewing out plentiful showers of shrewd recommendations while the curly haired sponge eagerly sopped it up. Maternal pearls of wisdom were supposed to be nurturing and comforting, not clumps of sarcastically delivered—though extremely hilarious—crap.

Casey groaned. Fourteen years of motherhood and she was still clumsy as a june bug with her offspring. Where was the Carol Brady Guide to Ideal Motherhood when she needed it?

…crazy as a june bug? Great, now she was turning into her own mother! If she started sprouting southern slang and adages, she was going to have herself committed.

Committed. She wished Charlie could've committed to being…well, committed.

She was stalling—and she was damn good at it, thank you.

Casey looked into Robin's expectant green eyes and sighed.

She was going to have to wing it.

Was there a patron saint of inept mothers?

"Champ…" she swallowed. "Where Rafe see's his father…you see a walking list of symptoms."

"What?" came the high-pitched declaration of moral outrage. "That's not—"

"Let me finish. Rafe got to experience your dad in a totally different light. Charlie...your dad was an amazing father. He doted on your brother. Your dad was so natural at parenthood it was borderline annoying. Where I was awkward and still trying to get the hang of things, Charlie was easy and relaxed. Rafe idolized your father. Still does…"

"How come Dad didn't try harder, if not for himself than for us? He should've gotten help. It worked the first time around…"

"It's not that black and white, Champ. We got him into in-patient care and we got him on meds, but the man we got back wasn't the one we knew and loved. The meds left him lethargic and unmotivated and pretty soon, your dad got bumped down to a reoccurring role in his own life. Look Robin, Rafe…Rafe copes by holding onto his memories of the father he knew. Even while on the meds, Charlie had some great days. The four of us still managed to have some amazing times…"

"I know. I've seen the pictures in my baby book. He looked so happy and normal. I wish I could remember."

"I know…"

"But Mom, the man…the man in those pictures and in Rafe's memories…that's not my dad. _My _dad was so doped up that he hardly knew I existed and when _my _dad ditched his meds, _my _Dad made my life hell. _My_ dad played the radio on full blast at night so the people 'watching' him would know he was aware of them. _My _dad ranted about FBI conspiracies and told me aliens were watching us through the television and that I should keep foil on my ears to keep them from stealing my thoughts. _My _Dad threw a bowl of cereal at me because he thought I was trying to poison him. _My _dad locked me and Rafe in a closet because we were evil spies sent by the government to keep him from spreading the truth. Then one day…one day…my dad attacked my mom and beat the crap outta her while Rafe and I hid under his bed. That's what I remember when I think of _my _Dad."

"Robin, your father…"

"My father chose to get off the meds and he chose to runaway instead of going back to the institution. Okay, yeah, so I don't know the man and I only know the disease—but Dad was driving everybody crazy. I was so scared of him, Mom. I was in kindergarten and I was already ashamed of him. I wish I could see this perfect patriarch like Rafe does, but all I see is the schizo who ruined our lives."

"Champ," Casey reached in and brushed the hot, angry tears out of the child's face. "I know you feel cheated and angry and resentful. I also know you're sad and hurting like hell. You're a very smart kid, but sometimes you use your brains to hide how vulnerable you are. I understand where you're coming from. Been there, felt it. But, Robin, I gotta tell you…you don't get to police your brother's emotions. Rafe went through it too—and he went through it longer. He watched the father he loved disintegrate into a stranger. However illogical and impractical his feelings are, they're his and you need to let him work them out."

"But why does he get to take it all out on Chester? If he keeps it up, he's gonna chase the guy off? Then what?"

"Rafe thinks I gave up on your dad. In his mind, if I had stuck it out, Charlie and everything else would've fallen back into place. At the end of the day, Rafe's a kid who wants his family back and Chester's a big ass cop standing in his way. You can't fault the kid for being a tad peeved. Now the way he's going about it, _hate_ _it_. But you know what? I'm the mom and I'll take care of it."

Robin poked out her bottom lip. "You're not gonna make me apologize to Rafe and Grandma, are you?"

"Uh, yeah? That would be kinda nice and magnanimous. I'm sure Rafe and Hillary weren't feeling the whole 'Doogie Houser: Shrink Edition' routine. Try graduating from middle school before flashing your psychiatrist license and psychoanalyzing your family."

"Okay, fine, you're right: I was a jerk," she sighed as she pulled herself out off the couch. "But if he gloats I'm punching him in the nose."

"There'll be no punching, Daughter."

"You're such a mom…" she paused, suddenly becoming interested in loose snitch in her cardigan. "Hey Mom?"

"Yeah Champ?"

"Do you think…do you think Dad'll ever come back?"

"I don't know, Robin."

"I know it's a chimera, but sometimes…sometimes I hope he'll just walk through the door and everything'll go back to normal. Stupid, huh?"

Stupid? No. Unlikely? Check! However, there were days when Casey entertained the same pipedream.

What would it be like if he came back…?

It was just a castle in the sky.

Chester was real and he was there, ready to be her knight in shinning armor.

Yet she couldn't help but wonder if she was settling for security, for a safe mundanity that promised ease.

As quiet as she kept it—and it _was _quiet—she knew that if the beautiful opportunity presented himself—she would…

She shook the thought out of her mind.

No sense in dwelling.

* * *

><p><strong>Next Up: <strong>Robin makes a friend at the library. Casey and her son butt heads. Chester attempts to bond with Rafe. Connie Burnham offers to lend someone a hand and receives a surprise visitor.


	5. Connections and Memories

Long time no update. Apologies. I'm wrapping up my final months of college so life has been extremely busy—err, busier than usual.

This chapter's a bit lengthy. I changed some things around to shorten it and it still managed to end up long. *headdesk*

Sending love to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, added this to their alert lists, and read!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter Four: Connections and Memories<strong>

"Casey, we need to talk."

"Can't right now. Busy."

Elliot frowned. She didn't exactly look 'busy'. When he barged into her office after a cursory knock, Casey was leaned into front of her personal laptop—a fist tucked under her chin and her elbows plopped lazily on her desk—deeply engrossed in whatever non-work related media that had arrested her attention in the middle of the afternoon.

He frowned at the sounds emanating from the computer's tiny speakers. "Football, in the middle of the day?"

She nodded absently, ignoring the twinge of disapproval thickening his voice. "Rafe's playing in his first game since making the JV team. He's starting since their first-string quarterback's out with a strained hamstring. They broadcast away games on a live feed for parents who can't make them."

"Who's winning?" he asked automatically.

The bottle blonde smirked up at him. "Interested, are we?"

"Meh, can't help myself," he shrugged and stuffed his fists in the pockets of his slacks. "Football fanaticism's embedded on my y chromosome—right next to alcoholism and the innate talent for police work."

She sniggered. "Midgley's up by a field goal. So," Closing her laptop, she folded her arms neatly on her surprisingly uncluttered desk and leaned forward. "What can I do for you?"

He eased himself down into one of the visitor chairs across from her and loosened his tie a bit. Reaching out, he fished out a chrome frame from the sea of photos on her desk: A much younger Rafe was flailing gracelessly in crystal blue waters of the Vineyard Sound—pushed, no doubt—while his sister grinned impishly at the camera as she leaned over the starboard side of her grandfather's speedboat. Peering into their young faces of Novak's children, Elliot remembered why he'd dropped everything at the precinct, leaving a bewildered—though annoyingly curious—Olivia behind, and hightailed it over to the courthouse.

He returned the photo to it's place. "You can explain to me why you'd let a scum bag like Conrad Burnham around your kids."

Casey straightened her spine at his cold tone. "Excuse me?" she felt the indignation swell in her throat. "Look, I don't know what Olivia told you—"

"—she told me a hell of a lot more than you…"

"Points for Detective Benson in the forthcoming department. Remember me to key her car as a reward," she rolled her eyes. "And what exactly's got your panties in a twist, Stabler? Forgive me if I don't go around talking up the rancid fruit on my very ex-fiancé's family tree. Connie's a sore spot for the Burnhams. He's not welcome in their home and when Charlie was lucid, he was ashamed of, and I quote, 'Connie's ardent lust for power and his lamentable amorality.' According to Robin, Connie's visit was a fluke and judging by the less than stellar welcome he received, I doubt his'll be a recurring presence at the Burnham asylum."

Elliot felt the wind leave his sails. "Just keep him away from those kids, Casey."

Her green eyes narrowed at the warning. "What's with the alarm bells? I know all about the special brand of upstanding citizens Connie defends. From what I gather, he's just a big-ticket mouthpiece. Unless," she tilted her head and combed his face with an assessing gaze. "You know more about the son of a bitch than I do. Okay, I'll bite—whatcha got?"

"It's not barbershop gossip, Novak. It's deep and it's nasty. I know the Feds have been looking at Burnham for a long time. I'm sure you know the name Andre Faustian…"

"Yeah, sure," she nodded. "His hands are in a shit load of pots, but nobody can touch the bastard because he's smart enough to wear gloves. He's got a long arm, too. The way I hear it he's got a stake in practically every vice festering in this city. I know he's been on the US Attorney's radar for quite some time, though they have yet to bring him up on chargers."

"Yeah, well, let's just say Connie's more than just Faustian's legal eagle. Burnham's got his head way up the guy's ass. Andre's Faustian isn't exactly known for his chummy nature, especially with people lucky enough not share chromosomes with him…"

"…yet Connie's a part of his inner circle…"

The memories came to him then, a barrage of them, dark and woeful. Images of a decades old summer flickered across his mind like an old movie reel. Suddenly, Elliot was twelve years old again, standing on his front porch, watching with the rest of his neighbors as the house directly across the street burned to the ground.

It wasn't the fire that had stayed with him for over thirty years.

It was the boy sitting on the curb.

All bedraggled inky hair and threadbare pajamas, the kid's face and bare feet were blackened with ash and dirt. He kept his eyes on the ambulance parked sloppily in the middle of the street, watching as they loaded his charred mother through the wide doors.

Elliot watched the boy eyeball the ambulance, wondering how he could stand it. As if the boy sensed his peer's question, he turned abruptly and bore his impossibly golden eyes into Elliot's blue ones.

It wasn't the pain in them that had seared those eyes into Elliot Stabler's memory. That was expected. It was the relief, the incongruous gratefulness and jollity that shook Elliot to the core.

As the flames consumed the house, the boys stared into the orange and red storm, each contemplating their definition of freedom.

"Elliot?"

Novak's thick voice yanked him out of the past. Clearing his throat, he tugged at his tie and schooled his features. "Sorry about that. It's been a long Monday."

She arched her brow incredulously. "It's barely eleven in the morning."

"Unfortunately crime doesn't take cat naps."

"Where were you just then?"

"Drop it, Novak. Just trust me on this, okay? Keep Burnham away from those kids. It's better that way."

"What aren't you telling me?"

He smirked. "A lot."

She drummed her fingers on her desk. He could see her struggling with her urge to question him further. Running her fingers through her hair, he couldn't help but smile when she conceded. "Fine, I won't question you any further—today. But," she held up a finger. "If you find out something that directly affects my kids…"

"…you'll be the first know."

"Fabulous," she re-opened her laptop. "Now get the hell outta my office."

Standing, he shrugged on his raincoat and went about his business.

He couldn't help but grin when he heard a triumphant squeal followed by a high pitched "touchdown!" from the other side of the door.

* * *

><p>"<em>This<em>," Brandon Clohessy leaned against the East 42nd Street and Fifth Avenue street sign and flung an all encompassing hand in the direction of the main branch of the New York Public Library across the busy street. He fiddled with the gold buttons on his Midgley blazer, lashing Jason and Robin with his characteristic surly scowl as the cold rain pelted his bare head. "_This_ is your idea of a lunch time adventure?"

Jason heaved an exasperated sigh and thrust his umbrella over the older boy. The last thing he wanted was Brandon blaming him for catching a cold. "You didn't have to tag along, you know."

"What—and miss what I thought was gonna be a chance to witness Birdie the Brainiac spread her wings and fly on the wild side?" he gave Robin's shoulder a light shove. "I think not. Besides, I couldn't let you little kiddies run around the big bad city without a proper chaperone, could I?"

"Yeah, because the six and nine measly months you have on us in age serves as some kind of kiddy rapist repellant," Robin deadpanned, hitting the seventh grader with a Casey-esque eye roll. "You came because Jason and I are the closest you'll ever come to having friends."

"Oh, I dunno, Robin," Jason grinned waggishly at his glowering cousin. "I think Brandon here only enjoys _your _company."

The twelve year old glared coldly at them. "The light's green," he grumbled and swept across the street.

Jason smirked at Brandon's retreating back and stepped off the curb. "I can just hear the wedding bells."

She looked genuinely disgusted. "I'd rather stick forks in my eyes."

The library was bursting with people when the three children pushed through the revolving doors and into the lobby. Robin scurried across the marble floor, her rolling backpack trailing behind her like a biddable dog. The boys ambled behind her, trading amused glances as she aimed her determined strut in the direction of the Periodical Room.

"Why are we here, anyway?" Brandon groused when Robin finally came to a halt. "Do you guys have a research paper due or something?"

Jason shook his head at the seventh grader and looked away. "Nope. Our language arts paper isn't due for another two weeks, right before we go on Thanksgiving break."

"...Okay? So, let's try this again: why are we here?"

Robin and Jason exchanged furtive glances. "We're just here, okay?" came Jason's ambiguous retort.

"This is about your dad, isn't it?"

A look of shock passed over the ten-year-old's face, but she steeled herself before either boy could comment. She curled her lips in contempt. "What's it to you, Clohessy?"

"Nothing," he shrugged, benignly. "When I was scrubbing beakers in the Bio lab, I over heard you ask Professor Talbert if she had any books about schizophrenia. I know about your dad so—"

"—so—what?—you gonna get a few laughs in? Maybe tell everybody at school? I wouldn't do that if I were you because Rafe would…"

"Hey!" Brandon half shouted, ending her tirade. He cringed at the sneer he earned from the librarian manning the information kiosk. "I wouldn't do that…" he paused, smiling sheepishly at the other children's incredulous glances. "Okay, I would, but not to you. I mean…ugh, _listen, _" he blushed at Jason's arched eyebrow. Sighing, he rested a rare supportive hand on her shoulder. "I understand what's like to be confused about your parents. Some people are meant to be parents and some aren't. Umm…either way: it's not your fault."

"Thanks Clohes—thanks Brandon," Robin nodded and cleared her throat. "Uh, I'm gonna go in now."

It had taken some serious finesse on her part, but Robin managed to convince the boys that she would be okay alone. While they were downstairs at the children's computer lab, Robin was hunched over a copy of James Canavan's award winning paper about the role of the family in Schizophrenia.

According to Canavan's research most of the families he sampled held the belief that schizophrenia marked the end of their loved one's life. One father described his son's life as a period of "mourning without end" that was only tempered by "lingering hope that one day [his son would] be returned to his former self." Even more interesting was the families' desire cover up the illness, especially if the relative was male.

How many times had Rafe tried to convince her that their father would walk back through their front door, his mind healthy as a horse? How many times had Grandma Hillary hemmed and hawed about her son's illness when the ladies from her charity guild or her women's fraternity inquired about "poor Charlie's" welfare. How many times had she, Robin, avoided talking about her father? How hard had she tried to write Charlie Burnham off? How frequently had Robin hoped, against her better wishes, that her mother would get "The Call" asking for her to come down to the city morgue to ID the body? How many times had she selfishly wished for that final jolt of closure?

Frowning, she jumped when the warm liquid plopped onto her hand.

Oh, she was crying.

Sniffing, she swiped angrily at her eyes with the soft wool of her blazer and returned to her reading. She sullenly shoved Canavan's paper aside and removed another psychology journal from the stack. No sense in whining over spilled milk.

"Human Molecular Genetics. Hmm, Oxford University, right?"

Her head snapped up at the unfamiliar, obtrusive voice. The intrusion was a tall heavyset man with graying dark curls and incisive, yet weary brown eyes. A leather binder was tucked protectively under his right arm, his trench coat draped over his left. Offering her a benign smile as sat his binder on the table, he fished around the breast pocket of his suit jacket and produced a pristine white handkerchief.

Straightening her spine and pushing her shoulders against her chair, she glared at the proffered piece of fabric. Ever since her first day at SVU, Casey Novak belabored the "stranger danger" point with her kids. She went beyond the standard "evildoers with puppies and windowless vans" conversation. Instead, she enrolled her kids in self-defense classes and "people safety" workshops. However, even after two years of karate and "awareness" classes, Robin found herself—much to her ego's chagrin—unnerved by the man's towering presence.

A knowing look washed over his face as he tucked away his handkerchief with his left hand and reached into the pocket of his trousers with his right. He pulled out an object and slid it across the table. Tucking his hands in his pockets, he rocked on the balls of his—Ferragamo?— clad feet and waited.

Robin, for her part, immediately perked up at the sight of the shield—the gold shield. Suddenly, the wariness that had arrested her vocal cords defrosted and her mind, much to her embarrassment, began working faster than her mouth. "I…umm…look Detective," she flipped open the badge and scanned the name. "Umm, Detective Goren. We weren't cutting. Honest! We're at lunch and…" she looked up at him to find the corner of his lips lifted into an amused smile. "…and you're not a truancy cop…"

"You got me," he held out a hand. "I'm Bobby."

She visibly relaxed and lightly shook the extended limb "Robin. Honestly, we aren't cutting. Our private school's on a different schedule than the district's."

"We?"

"Umm…my friends," she cringed inwardly at idea of Brandon Clohessy being anything remotely close to a 'friend'. "They're downstairs in the children's section."

"Hmm," he seemed to be more focused on her stack of periodicals than her words. "May I sit down?"

"Sure," she watched him drape his coat over his chair before he eased into it and delved hungrily into the mountain of psychological and medical journals. "So…uh…what house are you from?"

"Major case," Goren muttered absentmindedly, engrossed in the material. He flipped a few pages. "Are your parents cops?"

She shook her head. "No, but my mom's boyfriend's a detective at the one-six."

"SVU," he looked up. "You must know Detective Tutuola."

She smiled. "He's Chester's partner. So, Major Case, that's the big leagues, right? That's cool. You guys get all the high profile stuff, like serious white-collar crime and big time murder cases. The brass must really like you."

He snorted. "Something like that. Well Robin," he closed the copy of the most resent Journal of Abnormal Psychology quarterly. "I'm not one for patronizing, but this seems like pretty advanced reading for somebody your age."

She flashed him an impish smirk. "For all you know I have Turner's Syndrome."

"Doubtful, it's very rare." he eyed her seriously. "Besides, you're too tall."

She folded her arms. "Everybody knows Turner's manifests itself in lots of ways."

"I see it hasn't effected your aptitude for deflection."

She had the decency to blush. "I'm working on a project."

"For school."

"Yeah, for school."

"Most schools don't delve into behavioral and cognitive science until high school."

She frowned at him. "I guess they didn't make you a detective 'cause of your keen fashion sense."

He picked up another journal and began thumbing through it. "Why the interest in schizophrenia?"

"Why are you interested in my interest in schizophrenia?"

He ignored her sarcasm. Robin got the feeling he was immune to it. "It's not everyday you see an—eleven year old? —pouring over psychology and neuroscience periodicals on a rainy day."

Robin shrugged. "I'm ten and I just really like science. Plus I like understanding people."

"Especially those closest to you."

She jumped. He said it like he knew, like he knew what it was like. "Yeah," she said more to the table than to the portly detective. "I mean, I suppose."

Suddenly embarrassed, she ran the pads of her fingers over the table, tracing abstract figures into the varnished wood. When she looked up, he was scrutinizing her hands, his charcoal brows gathered in a frown. It was if her movements unnerved him. She immediately tucked her hands in her lap.

She decided to fill the uncomfortable silence. "None of the books tell you how to deal with the people. I mean, they talk about the patients, but only in a medical way. They discuss proper way to handle the person," she looked him up and down. "You look like you know your way around a library. Do you know of any books or articles that explain how to see the person and not the disorder?"

His smile looked understanding, yet mournful and resigned. "Books don't always have the answer."

She looked properly scandalized. "_Excuse me_?"

He chuckled. "There…aren't any official, established orthodoxies you can study and memorize, Robin. Everybody's different."

"So how do I…?"

"You can start by acknowledging the person's humanity and respecting their dignity."

She nodded soberly. "Mmkay," she looked down again. She almost reached up to draw on the table again, but she snatched her hands down when she remembered that it bothered him. She cleared her throat and averted her eyes. "Who?" she asked sotto voce.

"My mother."

Her eyes shot up, surprised that he heard her. A flash of raw pain dimmed his big eyes, but he sobered quickly. He shifted uncomfortably and began fiddling with the buttons on his navy blue jacket.

"My dad," she poked out her lip and tugged at it. "I mean, he's gone now. Not dead. At least I don't think he is. I just know he's not coming back."

"Do you…do you want him to?"

She shrugged. "I guess so. My mom and my brother say I know the disorder and not my dad. I want my _real _dad back so I experience what I missed out on and stuff, but that's just a fantasy. I read enough about schizophrenia to know he's not gonna be normal if he ever does comes back, so why waste my time wanting something that's not coming?"

He closed his eyes and sighed. "It's okay to hope, Robin."

"I do believe that good things will happen, Detective Goren. But don't you think it's impractical to hold onto trivial expectations?"

"Wanting to love your dad isn't trivial."

Her green eyes darkened. "Don't analyze me," she growled.

"Famous last words, kid."

Man and girl whirled to their left to find a petite blonde smirking down at them. Her golden eyes sparkled puckishly as she reached for one of the periodicals Bobby had piled in front of himself. She blinked at the subject matter, but her face betrayed nothing else.

"I figured I'd find you here," she poked him in the shoulder. She smiled conspiratorially at Robin. "He's like a kid in a candy store."

Robin grinned. "A regular Sherlock Holmes."

Eames glared benignly. "If you even _mention_ Watson…"

A lopsided grin dimpling her chubby cheeks, Robin held up her hands in mock surrender. "Wouldn't dream of it, Detective Goren's Partner."

Eames could just hear the capital letters. She groaned. "Detective Eames is fine."

Bobby lifted one of the journals to his face to hide his small smile. "Eames, this is Robin."

"Hi," she gave a tiny wave. Her eyes widened when they caught the clock behind the woman's head. "Oh man! I gotta go!"

Bobby stopped her when she reached for the stack. "You go ahead. I'll take care of these."

She beamed shyly at him. "Thanks Detective…you know, for everything," she stood up. She couldn't help but grin when she realized she was almost as tall as Eames. "Nice to meet you Detective Eames. Bye!"

Surprisingly, Brandon and Jason were waiting for her in the lobby. Jason slung an arm over her shoulder. "Find what you were looking for?"

"Yeah, but I need to do some real research."

"I'm not coming back to this damn library," Brandon grumbled.

"I'm done here. Well, for now anyway. I need to do some...fieldwork..."

Jason furrowed his brow. "How you do plan on…"

"…don't know yet," she smirked at him. "But I will soon."

The Clohessy cousins exchanged worried glances as they followed her out of the building.

* * *

><p>Conrad Burnham, Esq. was tilted backwards in his chair, cell phone cradled between his ear and shoulder, trying his damnedest not to jump through the speaker and throttle whining the caller on the other end of the line. Why he decided to get involved in the whole mess was completely beyond him. If he were in a pretending mood, he'd claim loyalty as his sole motivation. Somewhat true, he supposed. Loyalty notwithstanding, the real satisfaction would come from watching the ball drop.<p>

Yes, the whole affair would prove to be of lasting significance. Thankfully, the deck appeared to be stacked in favor. Now all he had to do was gingerly play his hand. If only he could get the spoiled little bastard to stop moaning like a petulant toddler.

"I see somebody's surfing the crimson tide this month," Connie groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He focused his eyes at the view outside room's picture windows, suddenly grateful for that his office overlooked The Hudson. "If you're absolutely sure about this, I'll care of it. No…_no_…you just keep your ass in park. I'll make the arrangements. All right…okay…consider it done…" he paused at the knock on his door. "Come in."

Allison, his usually level-headed assistant, was staring at him with a look that hovered between apologetic and anxious. "Mr. Burnham, there's a detective here to see you. He's rather…insistent that the two of you share words."

"Send him in," he gave her a reassuring nod and hung up his phone without some much as a goodbye. "Allison, you did nothing wrong."

A few speckles of light returned to her brown eyes and she flounced from the room, waving the mystery cop in before she returned to her station.

* * *

><p>If Conrad Burnham was surprised to see Elliot Stabler smirking at him from the threshold of the door, he had enough finesse not to show it. Burnham's face was a wall of politeness and composure as he stood to greet the detective. He beckoned the man further into the room and politely nodded in the direction of one of the plush visitor chairs in front of the cherry wood desk.<p>

"Please, have a seat."

Elliot tilted his head and shrugged at the chair. "I'll stand."

"As you wish," he returned to his own seat. "Would care for some coffee?"

Elliot, for his part, grinned inwardly. If that was how Burnham wanted to play it… "Aren't you gonna ask me why I'm here?"

Burnham shrugged apathetically. "Forgive me if I'm flummoxed. As far as I know, I don't have any clients beginning tried or investigated for sex crimes."

"No, you don't. Well, at least not yet. No, this," he waved a loose hand between them. "This is personal."

The attorney arched his eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Fair warning, I'm saying this once: stay away from Casey Novak's children."

The surprised look one Burnham's face was quite comical. At Elliot's barely suppressed triumphant grin, Conrad cleared his throat and whisked all emotion from his features. "You're here about my niece and nephew?" he inquired almost dubiously.

"You don't have any real relationship with those kids," Elliot shrugged, his tone evenly casual. "Keep it that way."

Connie gave a dismissive wave. "They're family."

The detective's temper jolted. "They'll be collateral damage to anybody you're stupid enough to piss off!"

Burnham tilted his head and studied Elliot for a beat, "I'm an amicable soul, Detective Stabler," he smiled affably to prove his point. "My clients tell me that my geniality has a calming effect on their moods. Be that as it may, my legal practice and my temperament aren't germane to the topic at hand. _Charlie's _children are perfectly safe, regardless of my involvement in their lives."

Elliot's face hardened. He released a small, humorless laugh. "You just don't get it, do you?" he laughed again. His eyes sharpened on the other man and he twisted them, trying desperately to squeeze out the reaction he knew Burnham was capable of. In a dark, frigid voice he trudged ahead. "You and I both know you're more than just a mouth piece. You're Faustian's Consigliere, if you're anything…"

"Consigliere," Burnham scoffed. "What am I, a regular Tom Fagan. Get your head outta the movies, Detective. I represent clients in need of a quality defense. I counsel them strictly in a legal context. My advice is helpful within the scope of the law. To imply that I'm some sort of mafia elder statesman, I must say, is rather offensive. Statements such as those coming from a decorated NYPD detective could be construed as slander."

Elliot folded his arms and pulled his lips back to expose two rows of perfect teeth. "The way I hear it you don't have any character left to assassinate, Connie. The Burnhams do everything in their power to distance themselves from you. Your own brother—you're schizoid, bat shit crazy brother—even he had the sense to be ashamed of—oh how'd he put it?—your 'ardent lust for power and lamentable amorality.' Guess that's Charlie speak for 'crooked, double-dealing son of a bitch.' "

Burnham's bright eyes flashed. "Watch yourself, Stabler," he swallowed, flicking off her outrage. He sized Elliot up. "Just curious, what's it to you?"

"We take care of our own," came his earnest retort.

"Yeah? So why isn't Detective Lake with you? Something tells me he'd want a piece of this dog and pony show."

Elliot was smart enough not to react at the mention of Chester. " The good 'ol Connie gut! Wow, _that's _never led you astray."

"Does Lake know you're encroaching on his territory?"

"I'm married man."

"I've handled enough divorce settlements to know that matrimony doesn't inhibit the male libido. Especially not in the presence of a leggy—what is she, blonde now?"

"You're keeping tabs on her?"

"Tabs has such a negative connotation, Detective," he replied silkily, relishing his victory at having got the other man's heckles up. "I like to keep Charlie's family under familial observation. Brotherly obligations and all."

"You and I both know you don't give a damn about your brother. It must _kill_ you to know that no matter what you do, no matter how much you wallow in Rafferty and Hillary Burnham's shit and thank them for the pleasure, you'll never be enough for them. You'll never be the son they want."

It was Burnham's turn to be piqued. "You don't know anything about my family!" his voice bounced around the room before it landed in Elliot's ears.

"And you know," Elliot muffled his voice to a gelid whisper. "They're not your family!"

Connie's face stilled and smoothed itself to an unreadable expression. "That'll be all, Detective," he said tonelessly.

"Burnham…"

"Get. Out."

Elliot held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, I'm gone. Fair warning, if anything happens to those kids, you and I'll be getting real acquainted."

He scoffed. "That a threat, Stabler?"

"Yeah," Elliot replied smoothly. He pulled open the door. "Nice seeing you again, Connie."

* * *

><p>Yup, Elliot and Connie have history. Oh, Goren and Eames'll definitely be peppered in. I was very upset that CI ended. This is just my version of a coping mechanism. :)<p>

**Next**: Chester tries unsuccessfully to bond with Rafe. Casey and her son butt heads. Robin and the Clohessy boys decide to take a little trip without their parents' knowledge.


End file.
